


Bowtruckles and Gigglewater

by LadyAJ_13



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Mythical Beings & Creatures, Original Percival Graves Needs a Hug, POV Alternating, Post-Movie 1: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-30
Updated: 2020-05-30
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:14:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24461146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyAJ_13/pseuds/LadyAJ_13
Summary: His book is finished, published, and it's time to drop a copy off with Tina. But what should be a quick stop-off on the way to seeing some saltwater mermaids, turns into something more when Newt gets called in to MACUSA headquarters.
Relationships: Original Percival Graves/Newt Scamander
Comments: 31
Kudos: 373





	Bowtruckles and Gigglewater

**Author's Note:**

> An alternative title for this: Finding a Herd (make of that what you will :P)

His intention had been to sail into New York, drop off the promised copy of his book with Tina, stay the night, and then catch a Muggle bus down to Delaware. He’s heard stories of a shoal of saltwater mermaids off the coast of Ocean City, and while they sound in little need of his help, the chance to see them thriving in their natural habitat is hard to turn down. He’d packed his father’s old binoculars and a bottle of sunscreen to make best use of the beach, plus a handful of gillyweed in case he couldn’t resist a closer look.

Queenie talks him into staying a little longer though; good company, magnificent dinners every night and fresh-baked pastries every morning (even if it does feel a little odd, tucking into a niffler for breakfast). It’s an easy routine to fall into, and novel to find two people who actually seem to prefer his presence over his absence. Still, the morning he chomps through a Dougal lookalike and finds himself daydreaming about a mooncalf for lunch, he decides he’ll leave the next day.

Until he gets summoned by the MACUSA.

He’s unsure what he’s done. Tina had helped him through the paperwork, so his permits are - for once - fully up to date. She accompanies him in to smooth out any misunderstandings, right to the door of Percival Graves, head of the department.

“Dismissed, Goldstein,” a voice utters from inside. She shrugs and steps back.

“I’ll wait for you here,” she mouths, pointing at the wall opposite Graves’ door. Despite everything, despite knowing the man within is not a dark wizard but one who found himself the victim of one - it still takes a lot of internal convincing to turn the door knob and step inside.

The door shutting erases the busy sounds of the corridor and other offices. A silencing charm, or a muffling one at least. It makes the hairs on his arms prick up, and he steps forward like he’s approaching an unknown beast. Even before the events of last year, he’d heard tell of Percival Graves from Theseus’ letters. The two know of each other and cross paths the way two respected security officials might, and Newt has read between the lines and come to the conclusion their relationship is mainly formed of half-friendly rivalry and concealed one-upmanship. So he’s not scared. But he is wary.

Graves glances up, and waves dismissively to the chair in front of the desk, eyes falling back to the parchment in front of him. It’s covered in scrawls, some Arithmancy if he’s not mistaken, and more than a few crossings-out and blotted ink. Newt sits. He’s been categorised as a non-threat, which is a good first step.

“I read your book.”

The statement almost makes him jump; instead, he tightens his grip on the handle of his suitcase. Graves looks up, and he’s caught in a dark gaze.

Grindelwald… he’d been a decent actor, Newt has to admit, earlier on when he was still trying. This is Percival Graves, no doubt about that with all the new enchantments and protections placed on the headquarters, and yet there’s still the same careful posture he recognises, the concealed power of a panther on the prowl, muscles shifting under a shiny coat. The voice too, was spot on. Economical, assured. No wonder a department full of trained aurors were taken in. He swallows hard, and reminds himself again that this is Graves, at least nominally on the side of good and unlikely to sentence him to death for the crime of existing.

“Oh?”

“Very good.” 

Graves speaks the compliment like it costs him, teeth gritted, and Newt can’t help but wonder what exactly has made this man dislike him. Perhaps the rivalry with Theseus has tipped since his last letter; Mother always did say they look alike. Still, the cool reception rankles a little. He’d never demand thanks for his part in the whole fiasco, but he had been instrumental in Graves’ rescue.

“Thank you.”

“I will make it required reading for my aurors. They should know how to handle beasts.”

“They're not dangerous,” he says quickly. “Not if handled correctly, none of them are dangerous-”

“The laws are in place, Mr Scamander.” A shadow passes briefly across his face. “But your book will help avoid injuries to civilians, aurors, and creatures alike.”

He nods, quickly. It’s probably the best that can be hoped for. Baby steps, he reminds himself, his inner voice sounding strangely like Theseus. Much as he wishes he could gather everyone up and fling them across into a brave new world where humans and creatures can live in harmony, reality will take baby steps.

“I’ll require fifty copies, with a further ten to fifteen yearly for new recruits.”

“I, uh-” he thinks quickly. The book is barely off the press, author advances owled to him only two weeks before. He has none to spare unless he gives up his own copy, certainly not fifty. But an order like that - from a head of department within MACUSA - “I think you’ll need to speak to the publisher.”

Graves nods sharply, and Newt takes that as a dismissal, rising to his feet. He double takes when Graves springs up too, the perfect mask slipping for just a brief second. It’s enough. Newt isn’t the best with people, but he can read them well - just as other animals, when humans show their emotions they’re easy to understand. They’re just less predictable in their reactions; too many complicated emotions - shame, embarrassment - overriding their baser instincts. 

But Graves isn’t quite as impermeable and cold as he presents. 

“I also wanted to thank you, Mr Scamander,” Graves continues, tone carefully modulated. “I was informed it was you who revealed Grindelwald and led to my release.”

Newt nods slowly. If Graves was an animal he’d react to the flash of fear he’d seen. He’d move slowly, and talk softly. Make himself small and open. Graves doesn’t need anyone fighting for him, he’s well capable of that himself. But he’s still scared, months later, and fear doesn’t react to logic. It reacts to warmth, to safety, to comfort. To community. Graves needs a herd that will help him watch his back. 

He makes himself translate. Graves needs friends. Maybe a hug. But he also has his spines up, and anyone trying to get close right now will find themselves skewered. 

He nods again, slightly looser, and smiles like the atmosphere in the room isn’t tight enough to choke on. “I’m glad I could help. And that - that you’re okay.” He stutters over the lie, because Graves is clearly not okay, not really - but it makes Graves relax; a minute shift of shirt fabric over his shoulders. 

Graves sits again, and waves back at the chair. Evidently their little chat is not yet over. “Mr Scamander, I also require your expertise.” 

He’s in the middle of sinking back into his seat when Graves reaches into his jacket pocket and produces a bowtruckle. He nearly misses the chair.

\--

Amusing as it would be to watch the dishevelled man land on his ass, Graves flicks his free hand and his visitor chair obediently shifts across to catch him. Scamander bites his lip, and leans forward to peer at the creature.

“He came in with a gang of burglars,” he finds himself explaining. “Evidence couldn’t keep him locked away.” Couldn’t have kept him anyway - not just because it wasn’t right, to treat a living thing like a piece of evidence, but because they didn’t have a lock a well-trained bowtruckle couldn’t pick. He hadn’t even tried, instead swooping the creature up and bringing him to his office before summoning the one expert he knew of on the subject. He’d been relieved to hear from Goldstein that Scamander was still in the city. 

The bowtruckle has proven himself remarkably clingy over the last few hours. He’d tried to deposit it in his office plant, for lack of a suitable tree, but it had clung to his fingers until he gave up and let it hang onto him through a morning of paperwork. It had been a disconcerting experience to take a leak with a green creature made of sticks and leaves hanging from his ear, and he was only glad that there was no one else in the bathroom to see the indignity. 

Scamander stands again, and leans forward, palms braced on his desk. It puts him less than a foot away, although those bright eyes are focused entirely on the creature resting on his hand. He juts his hand forward, but when Scamander holds his out, the blasted creature retreats, up his sleeve and over his shoulder and - the damn thing is in his hair!

“Scamander!” he exclaims. “Control it!”

“It’s not doing any harm,” Scamander says softly. He twists around until he’s  _ sitting on Graves’ desk _ , and leans over to observe the bowtruckle. “What’s his name?”

“Name?” Of course the idiot names them. Barely more than a glorified stick insect with a propensity for crime, but worthy of naming, naturally. The idiot… smells rather good, from this angle. He stiffens, trying to remember the last time someone was in his personal space like this. It was - it was - “I don’t know.”

Like magic, Scamander is back on the other side of the desk, in his chair. He’d have thought the other man apparated, except only he has special dispensation to do that in this office. 

“I have one too,” Scamander says, tone casual and posture relaxed. So relaxed he’s practically sprawled in that chair in fact, and what does he think this is, a picnic in the park? “I think they think of us as trees, but warmer and more mobile. Changing scenery. Some bowtruckles must just get the adventuring gene.” He roots around in his hair, and withdraws a bowtruckle. 

Graves sighs in relief, relaxing. He’d captured the thing and retreated, good. 

“This is Pickett.”

He scratches an itch on his head. 

“Right.”

“He’s a bit clingy too.”

“Right.”

He should be wrapping the meeting up, but now that he’s back on the other side of the desk there’s something calming about Scamander’s presence. Must be all the soothing of wild animals he does. He has a haphazard air about him, but one that comes out softened and quiet, like a - Merlin’s beard. No. He’s not thinking of  _ Newt Scamander _ as some kind of safe space. He doesn’t even know the man, his brother is a thorn in his side, and the little he’s heard of him personally suggests disorder and destruction follows him and that damn suitcase like a duckling to its mother.

He yawns. That darned itch-

He looks at the bowtruckle settling onto his wrist. And then at the bowtruckle settling back into Scamander’s mess of hair.

Damn.

“You have to take him.” He holds his hand out across the desk like it’s been dipped in something foul and he doesn’t want it touching his suit. Scamander just smiles that infuriating little smile that makes his eyes crinkle. 

“They get attached,” he shrugs. “I think you’ve got yourself a passenger.”

He fixes Scamander with a hard stare. “I am the Director of Magical Security. I can’t just carry a bowtruckle-”

“You can with permit 429-B. Tina can help you with the paperwork.”

It’s said guilelessly enough, but he’s got to be pulling his strings now. No one is that obtuse. He scowls. “I won’t, is perhaps a better way of putting it.”

Scamander shrugs again, standing up and picking up his case - and this looks an awful lot like he’s about to leave, and that can’t happen. “Wait-”

“They’re determined little buggers,” he says cheerfully. “Strong too. I’d have to break his grip to get him off, and I’m sorry Mr Graves,” he doesn’t look sorry at all, Graves thinks, “but I won’t do that. They’re useful to have around, anyway, and he certainly seems to have taken to you.”

“I don’t know how to look after-” he tries, but is cut off with a wave as Scamander disappears down the corridor. 

“Page 53!”

\--

It is surprisingly easy, Graves admits, to get used to keeping a bowtruckle. He’d requisitioned Goldstein’s book (ignoring the graceful, looping letters of Scamander’s signature scrawled in green ink across the title page), but the thing finds his own food, and after a few stern conversations he’s even managed to broker an agreement where it can only set up shop in his hair within the walls of his apartment. The rest of the time, it’s a shirt or jacket pocket only.

He never intended to have a pet. Hadn’t even seen himself with an owl - why bother with the mess, when it’s so easy to head down to the Mail Office? But the bowtruckle - okay, he’s called the thing Rooney after his first pickpocketer collar as a young auror - is unassuming, even pleasant, company. After the first two days he’d got used to the squirming feel of bowtruckle limbs shifting about in his pockets, and after a week it’s become a feature of his life. An odd feature. An unexpected feature. But it’s not even entirely displeasing to wake up to a little green face poking at his nose.

Which is why he’s upset now. Upset enough to apparate into Goldstein’s apartment - and he probably should have apparated outside and knocked, does it constitute sexual harassment to have accidentally seen Queenie in her nightdress? - and ask if they know how to contact Scamander.

“Sir!” Tina flaps her hands, eyes wide. “Calm down sir. Newt? Why do you need Newt?”

“Do you know where he is?”

She nods wordlessly, turning on her heel and jogging into a bedroom. Two twin beds are made up in peaches and pinks, and in the middle of the floor is a familiar, battered case. She raps her knuckles sharply on the side. 

The latches jingle and the top pops open. Out emerges a very windswept, very freckled head. Thank Merlin.

\--

“Scamander!”

“Graves?” He swivels from Graves to Tina, but it's clear she has no idea why the man is in the middle of her apartment, clothes dishevelled as if he’s been through a fight, but with no discernible injuries. “Everything alright?”

“It’s Rooney.”

He runs through mental lists and comes up with a blank, but then - a little green body, cradled carefully, making angles that shouldn’t be possible. His head clears. “Come on down.”

He doesn’t waste time with the hows and whys. Graves doesn’t seem in need of medical treatment, but it’s clear the bowtruckle - Rooney, it seems -  _ does.  _ He doesn’t try to remove him from Graves’ hand, but instead hunches over in his workshop, fixing little splints around his broken leg. 

“Keep still,” he hisses for the third time, as his work surface shudders. It’s incredibly fiddly work, and if Graves won’t stop -

Shaking. If Graves won’t stop shaking. He looks up.

Most people wouldn’t be able to tell. Graves has his walls up, but Newt - this is the second time he’s caught a chink in his armour, and it’s easier to see the second time. He’s worried, but not just worried. He’s guilty.

He takes him by the wrist and settles the back of Graves’ hand against his workbench. With a firm surface below, he holds steadier, enough that he can wind round the thin bandage and fasten it. He pulls open drawers, flicking through the many little vials he keeps in storage, and comes up with something that will work as a painkiller mild enough for such a small creature. He dabs it on the end of one finger, and lets Rooney lap at the digit.

“Will he be okay?”

It’s almost whispered, but it doesn’t need to be any louder, close as they are. He sits up a little, cricking his back from being hunched over working. “I think so,” he says, just as quietly. “It was a clean break, at least.”

He looks back down at the bowtruckle; the painkiller must be working, because he’s relaxed into sleep. He traces his finger lightly over his head.

“You need to keep him.”

Newt shakes his head; it’s obvious how attached Rooney is, and after a traumatic experience he’ll heal quicker with the one he trusts. “I told you-”

“This wasn’t a  _ raid _ ,” Graves hisses. He keeps his hand flat out and still, palm a bed for the broken bowtruckle. But otherwise his body is a knot of tension. They’re close enough that Newt could rest his own hand on that furrowed brow. He would, if Graves was a Thunderbird. He’d talk him down, he’d ease out the self-directed fury until it slipped away. “Or a  _ duel. _ This was  _ me. I  _ did this.”

“Not on purpose, I’m willing to wager.”

“I was careless. I - I forgot. I was angry and I…” Graves shakes his head, closing his eyes with a pained expression. 

Newt doesn't have to be a Legilimens to work out the rest. Bowtruckles are easily hidden. A distracted human, a sleepy bowtruckle, everyone’s reactions too slow. A coat thrown against a wall, or even an accidental collision with a door frame after one too many giggle waters…

“It wasn’t-”

“You need to keep him,” Graves repeats. Newt looks him in the eyes. He wants what’s best for Rooney, but he realises, suddenly, he wants what’s best for Graves too. And perhaps the only way to take that look away…for now… is to give in.

“I’ll see him back to health,” he promises, carefully scooting Rooney across onto the workbench. He can’t be carried around as he is anyway, and he doubts Graves has anywhere to easily house a non-mobile bowtruckle. By the time he turns around, all he can see of Graves is his feet, halfway out of the suitcase.

“Mr Graves!” he hears Queenie exclaim. “Can we get you a drink?”

The door slam reverberates through the flat.

\--

Rooney’s better, but he’s not right. His leg is all healed, but he’s listless and droopy. His leaves are tinged with brown despite the best diet and plenty of fresh air while they hiked the Appalachian trail looking for a yeti. (It’s much too far south, which was concerning, but after three weeks he’s come to the conclusion it’s a hoax, and no yeti is sweating away in these mountains. It was a shame to postpone the mermaids, but at least now he knows no creature has been suffering.) Newt has taken to keeping Rooney in his jacket pocket, much to Pickett’s dismay, but even the constant body heat seems to have little effect on the poor thing.

He makes up his mind.

An appointment would be the sensible way of going about it, but he’d had errands to run when he got back to New York. Before he knows it, office hours are done and dusted and the weekend looms. But this can’t be put off any longer. 

It takes a promise of several nights doing the washing up before he manages to worm the name of Graves’ favourite bar from Tina, and then a good half an hour to find the place. When he slips inside the crowd is already in full swing, and it takes some pushing to make his way over to the bartender.

A hand grasps him by the elbow. “Scamander. What are you doing here?”

He relaxes when he sees Graves; the worry is always that it’s some disreputable trader he’s liberated of his creatures. “Looking for you!” he says brightly. The barwitch comes over and he orders two gigglewaters. “Cheers.”

Graves doesn’t touch his drink, so Newt shrugs through his involuntary laugh and picks it up for himself instead. He pushes back through the people, Graves still latched onto one arm like he’s forgotten his grip. Perhaps he has, because when they reach an empty booth he drops it like it burns him. 

“Cheers,” Newt says again, downing Graves’ drink and letting out a loud giggle. It tastes like strawberry jam, but spicy.

“Careful on those, they serve them strong here.”

“Is that why you turned it down?” Graves waves a hand at a passing waiter. “A man buys you a drink, it’s only polite to…” he stares at the glass placed in front of him. 

“I prefer not to get completely ossified,” Graves smirks, and nudges the glass. “You’ll like this. Panther piss.”

“ _ What? _ ”

Another smirk. “Whiskey, Mr Scamander. With the benefit it tastes like alcohol and doesn’t have the unfortunate side effect of high-pitched giggling.”

The liquor is smooth and warming, but not as spicy as the Firewhiskey back home. After a sip he puts the glass down reluctantly. It wasn’t his intention to get ossified tonight either, although he seems to be well on his way. 

“Newt,” he says. 

Even more than half a sheet to the wind, he clocks Graves’ reaction to that. A little twitch, poorly covered with a sip of his own drink. 

“Do you go by Percival? Or Percy?”

\--

Graves, damnit, he goes by Graves. There aren’t any still alive who get to use the nickname Percy.

“Percival,” he grunts, “is fine.”

“I thought you might want to know about Rooney.”

Oh, Rooney. He’d missed the little critter more than he’d have expected. Still. He’s with Sca- Newt, now, and that’s the best place for him.

“Break’s all healed, but he’s…” 

Newt hangs his head, and just like that, there’s an unpleasant squirming in his stomach. He downs the rest of his whiskey too quickly. Maybe he should have stuck to the bland, marshmallow sweetness of gigglewater - he’d be less inclined to knock that back. 

“He’s what?”

“He’s pining!” 

What he thought was Newt despondent was actually Newt rooting around in his jacket; he emerges with two bowtruckles, and he thanks Merlin, Morgana and goddamn Beedle the Bard for the low lighting levels keeping them mostly hidden from prying eyes. Even he can see one bowtruckle is a shiny, healthy green, and the other… is not. Rooney.

“Don’t be ridic-”

He’s cut off when Rooney springs up, darts across the table, and shimmies up his arms. He feels that odd rustling again, and then the interminable but familiar itch of Rooney setting up shop in his hair. Despite their rules. 

“I think he’ll be okay now.” Newt grins across the table, and Graves sighs. There’s no reason to stay, but he can’t deny there’s something about the Englishman that fascinates him. And no harm to be had, he supposes, in seeing if he can coax that grin out again; it rather suits Newt’s face. 

He flicks a finger for two more whiskeys.

\--

He’s drunk more than he should have. It was too easy, sitting across from Gra- Percival, with the two bowtruckles glaring at each other and stealing droplets of watered whiskey. He likes the gigglewater… but Percival grimaced at him oddly for every glass and subsequent laughing fit, so that meant a follow up whiskey…

He should have brought all the bowtruckles with him, then they could have ferried him back to Tina’s like Gulliver on an army of rather more friendly Lilliputians. As it is… he’s more floppy than he’d have liked.

Except being floppy apparently means having one arm slung around Graves’ shoulders. It’s not the hug he’d have liked to give him, but it is the other man pressed all up one side, and he trips and falls slightly more securely into his grasp.

That might not have been an accident.

“You need a herd,” he mumbles. “Everyone needs a herd.”

“What about lone wolves?”

“Pack.” Everyone knows that. He follows his point up with a finger jabbed into Gra- Percival’s chest. It’s a strong chest. He’s a strong man, because Newt’s not sure his feet are doing much of the work here at all, but they’re moving along quite steadily. “Wolves have packs. No lone wolves.”

“Right.”

“Herd,” he repeats. That’s very important. He thinks.

\--

Goldstein looks mortified, answering the door to her boss in her nightclothes. They both do their best to ignore the situation, and he tugs Newt through to the bedroom where the suitcase is plonked in the middle.

Queenie is in one of the beds, book in hand, and the other has the blankets all rumpled as if someone has left it in a hurry.

“He sleeps in your room?”

“He sleeps in his suitcase, Mr Graves,” Queenie tinkles, giggling, and he forgets every time that she can see his thoughts. He slams his Occlumency walls down. 

Goldstein bends and undoes the clasps, flicking the case open. 

“What, do I just throw him in?” Newt is zero help at this point. As if the gigglewater-panther piss combination is somehow getting worse. He’s passed floppy into dead weight territory.

“Can’t you carry him in? It’s a bit of a drop to just shove him through.”

He leans, as much as he’s able - he was a bit distracted last time he went in, worried about Rooney. She’s right. If he drops Newt in in his current state, he’s likely to break something and they’ll be lucky if it’s only one of his experiments. “Right.” He hauls Newt round over one shoulder, and somehow makes it down into the workshop.

There’s a reasonably comfortable looking bed set to one side, so he dumps Newt there. In one corner, a pot of some gloopy substance bubbles and emits the smell of fresh wood shavings. A kneazle is curled up in another. The room is dark, and close, and feels safe and enclosed like he imagines a burrow would. Or a nest. 

This  _ is  _ Newt’s nest.

“Mr Graves?” Goldstein’s head pops through the rectangle of light that leads up into the outside world. “Everything okay?”

“Yes,” he calls back, but he can’t help but turn and look at Newt, sprawled as he is. Goldstein and Queenie are Newt’s herd, he realises. The way they let him crash in their apartment every other month is a pretty big indicator. He could ask either one of them down here. “Someone should watch him. Make sure he doesn’t… choke on his own vomit.”

“What did you do to him?”

“Got him drunk, Goldstein, you never seen it before?”

She smirks, even though her head is turning red from the blood rushing to it as she hangs through the gap. “You got him drunk, he’s your problem.”

“Goldstein-”

“You’ve no jurisdiction over me in my own bedroom,” she answers, and her head disappears. “Sir,” she adds cheekily, popping back in and disappearing just as quickly.

The rectangle of light closes, although he can still see a chink. He shoves Newt over slightly, and pulls off his shoes. He sits on the edge of the cot. He supposes he should be grateful they’ve not locked him in. 

\--

There are no sunrises and no sunsets in his workshop. He’d never seen the point of layering in the extra charm, and even those outside, for the creatures, rarely match up with the real world. It makes it easy to doze on, and the banging in his head when he starts to surface suggests it would be a prudent choice to sink back down.

He groans, shifting to get more comfortable, and as he shuffles backwards his arm hits Dougal. Except… Dougal is hairier than that…

“Newt, if you don’t stop hitting me I will start hitting back.”

His eyes snap open. “Graves?!”

“Really? You badgered your way into Percival last night and now give up the privilege so easily?”

Badgered… did he? The memories of last night are hazy, fuzzed with laughter from the gigglewater and smoothed to an unnatural glow by the whiskey. He thinks he remembers leaning on Gra- Percival. A strong arm wrapped around his waist, and the unfamiliar smell of another man close.

“Percival,” he says. None of those resurfaced memories quite explain what the other man is doing in his bed. He sits up, wincing at the pain in his head, and throws back the blankets. He’s got creatures to feed, and this is not a situation to linger in-

A beaker appears under his nose, smelling of mint and freshly mown grass. His sluggish brain recognises the combination as a restorative and he downs it in one. The potion creeps from his throat outwards, into his bloodstream, whizzing down his legs and arms and rehydrating as it goes. He’s waterlogged - someone could pop him with a pin and he’d leak like an old pipe - then the magic soaks in, and he feels normal. He swallows. The dry, sour taste in his mouth has gone too. That was expertly brewed.

“There’s more in the pot.”

It had been slightly warm still; fresh, and homemade. 

Percival answers his unasked question with a sheepish smile. “I’ve had cause to need it on a few occasions, mostly after MACUSA Yule parties.”

If Percival made it, rather than Queenie bringing it down, then that begs the  _ other _ question of why he’d hopped back into bed after, rather than leave, or at least transfigure himself a chair. 

“Tea?” he squeaks, springing to his feet. He roots around for a teapot, coming up with one that had once housed a flobberworm colony, with a brush stuffed in the spout to prevent escapees. It’ll be fine with a quick rinse. He spins to find Percival watching him, focused but calm like some kind of hunting cat. Maybe a jarthal. Ready. Waiting. A million miles, he now sees, from the cold control of Grindelwald wearing his face. 

“Or… Queenie will have coffee upstairs. But down here I’m afraid it’s an English zone. Biscuits! I’m sure I have some somewhere, unless the niffler has made off with them because of the foil-”

“Biscuits? With tea?”

“Of course.” He drops to his knees and roots around under the bed in case the biscuits rolled there after a late night snack. “What do you eat biscuits with?”

“Gravy.”

“ _ Gravy _ ?”

“Well, not personally, but in the southern states it’s considered normal.”

Newt stares at him. Percival has none of the signifiers of someone pulling his leg, but he has been known to miss such cues before, and the sight of the man in his bed… with his collar loosened and shirt sleep-rumpled… and yes, those are his  _ socked feet _ \- is distracting. “What an interesting flavour combination.” 

He makes the tea, and hands a mug over. Their fingers brush, even though he held it so the handle was clear, and the brief touch sends little tingles up his arm. Percival swallows and twitches away quickly enough that the liquid splashes over his thumb. Newt raises it to his mouth subconsciously and sucks it away, freezing at the look on Percival’s face.

This… this was always a possibility. The first time he saw Grindelwald-as-Graves he thought  _ oh _ , because his face had a certain pleasing symmetry - but the man was awful and the feeling dissipated before it had any chance to root. Meeting Graves again was never the plan, but then he’d thought it would be a quick in and out, and clouded by bad memories. But now… now Graves is Percival, and he dotes on the bowtruckle in his care, and he sees drunken Englishmen to their lodgings, and he… stays. He brews fresh hangover cures in Newt’s disaster of a kitchen and delivers them promptly upon waking.

Contact, distraction, even dilated pupils - Percival is projecting all the classic signs of arousal. Possibly he’s echoing Newt’s own feelings, but he can’t think of any reason, any  _ benefit  _ to Percival displaying such signs towards himself. He’s acted on obvious signs of attraction before - back home - to find his partner just wanted him to engineer an audience with Theseus. Or out and about, more than once when people see his creatures - only for them to try and hoodwink him into potions ingredients with a smile and a favour. But here, with no one to see and nothing that Newt has to offer? He can’t pinpoint the reason to fake an interest. Unless... he isn’t. Faking, that is.

He turns away, and fiddles with the empty teapot. That’s a whole new situation. If Percival’s attraction is real… and directed at him…

He’d never quite understood how a heart could skip a beat. But his own thumps in his chest; a fight or flight response kicking in when there’s nothing to run from. He remembers being pressed to Percival’s side, staggering through city streets, the warm arm that kept him close, safe, and the gentle hands that had settled him into bed. The thought that he might feel them again, unfuzzed by alcohol, sends blood rushing to his cheeks.

“I should get going.”

“Wait!” The word is out before he knew he was to say it, but it has the desired effect. He spins to see Percival frozen, one foot on the ladder to climb out. The blush is intensifying, hot and prickly over his neck, his chest, and flaming across his ears. “Can I kiss you?”

\--

It’s clear he’s been here too long. He’s not sure how he ended up in this situation, but Newt’s nest is… well, cosy. For the first time in a long time he’d not half-heard a door blasted off its hinges as he fell asleep, shocking him back to wakefulness, over and over again until the night outside the window turned pale and washed out with new dawn.

The light doesn’t change down here, and Newt had been a warm lump of blankets and body heat at his side, that shifted until they lay together like interlocking puzzle pieces. Whether it’s the suitcase itself, infused with Newt’s magic, or the man’s own calming presence, he’s not sure... but this is the most peaceful he’s felt since - since before. 

It’s probably a bit of both.

He’s not blind. That first time Newt stepped into his office he’d seen it. The quick, darting eyes and liberal freckles and wild hair. He’d been unlike anyone he’d ever met, and really quite beautiful. Not the icy beauty of the society dames his family occasionally foisted upon him. More the warm, friendliness of Queenie, but in an altogether more touchable way. He’d been unprepared. He’d slammed the walls down on that particular thought and banished it to the far reaches of his mind, where it could wither and fade. Only Newt kept popping up, that bowtruckle dragging them back together until here, now.

It’s a warm friendliness he’s taken advantage of, inviting himself into Newt’s private space like this. And not only that but staying - bedding down together like lovers when they’re barely even friends - it’s unconscionable. It’s a violation.

“I should get going.”

“Wait!” 

He stops, one foot on the ladder to leave. It’s only right, of course, that he allows Newt the chance to make his feelings on the matter known. A fetching rush of blood takes over his face; he must find confrontation difficult. 

“Can I kiss you?”

He’d think he’d misheard, with the way Newt’s gaze flickers away as soon as the question is out, but he finds himself nodding just in case. A kiss from Newt Scamander. That would be - yes, that would be more than acceptable. That might just become some kind of addiction, he thinks, gaze trailing helplessly to a mouth he’s made every effort not to fixate on. He’d let himself catch on Newt’s eyes, his cheekbones, anything to avoid that mouth and the thought of…

Too late now.

Newt steps closer, moving like a magizoologist, that same steady presence in every limb, despite the way he bites at his lip. Percival’s hands sneak out, catch him by the hips, and pull him closer before he can second guess - it might not - that might not be okay - but Newt is relaxing under his fingers, allowing himself to be drawn forward until they’re close enough for their shirts to touch.

“I’d like that very much,” he whispers, and closes the gap between their lips. A soft brush to start, a chance to test, not tease - and then firmer when Newt presses closer, taking over control. It’s a new sensation, being led rather than leading, but he lets himself sink under Newt’s care. He gets lost in the back and forth, the curious darts of Newt’s tongue and the sweet, faint taste of mint.

When Newt draws back, he finds himself almost dazed. Certainly distracted. Newt’s lips are flushed and well-kissed, and Percival hadn’t even had a chance to dig his fingers into that hair, but he still looks like he’s been tumbled in the sheets. Yes. This is… this is going to be very distracting. “Can I kiss you again?” he asks, with just a thread of desperation.

Newt nods hurriedly. “Yes. Yes, you-”

He cuts him off. Newt is temptation personified, and a really quite inventive kisser - they push and pull until Newt suddenly breaks free with a cry.

“What? What is it?” 

It was too far. Obviously, they haven’t even dated and left much longer he’d have been hard pressed to keep his hands above the belt. They’d been roaming anyway, dangerous, and-

“The creatures! They’ll be absolutely starving, and if I leave Belinda too long she’ll start getting curious about the mooncalves-”

He’s gone, flitting about the workshop and unearthing miniaturised buckets of feed. Percival can’t help but laugh, tension released - of course Newt is worried about his creatures. The relief is like bubbles in his chest, until Newt whirls to a stop and everything condenses down into a sure, steady fondness. 

“Can I help?” he asks. “I’d like to meet them in person. Put all my new knowledge to the test. And didn’t you say you have more bowtruckles?” It would be quite fascinating to see how they usually live; he’s got the impression Rooney and Pickett are outliers.

“You want to help?”

He wonders if it was the wrong thing to ask - too much, too soon perhaps - but he nods. 

Newt smiles wide and free, and it puts every other time he’s seen him happy to shame. “Yes. Yes, of course, here-” 

He finds himself loaded up with buckets, and dragged by the hand through a flap in the wall out into a wide savannah. Newt’s grip is strong and warm, and his hand is just the right size for Percival to twist a little and lace their fingers together. 

“This habitat is made for nundus, but I don’t have one at the moment. I managed to rehome Nancy just before I came back to New York to give Tina her book. I keep it like this just in case, you don’t want to be holding off on rescuing a nundu because you don’t have a space set up, and the diricawls like it too…” 

\--

Two weeks later, Newt emerges from his suitcase for his regular morning Niffler. He pours tea for Queenie, who has become fond of it, and catches the pages of the newspaper that Tina floats through the air over to him as soon as she’s done.

“New show opening next week Queenie, we should check it out,” murmurs Tina.

“Ooh, yes! It’s been too long.”

His eye catches on an advertisement; cut price steamer tickets to Europe. He has no reason to stay in New York, or even in America. His book is finished, published and distributed. The trip to see the mermaids was due to be a holiday, that’s all, a little side journey before his sabbatical ended and he went back to the Ministry of Magic as their full time magizoologist. But he’s used that time on non-existent yetis, then floating about the city instead, bouncing between Tina, Queenie and Percival.

“I want to wear something sparkly and sip champagne.”

“Perhaps you could invite Jacob, I’m sure he’d buy it for you. The bakery is doing well.”

The Ministry needs him. Even if he gifts them copies of his book, he has more knowledge and more care for these creatures than anyone else in government.

“Perhaps if we’re out late enough, Newt could even get Graves through and into the suitcase  _ before _ we have an embarrassing pajama moment.”

He has no reason to stay in New York. 

What is he saying? He has every reason.

He stands, marching away from the table and into his suitcase. It takes a bit of searching - the workshop has never been so untidy - but finally he unearths a battered wooden handle.

“Theseus?”

A face swims into view on the other side of the two-way mirror. It’s distorted, like a reflection in water, from the glass being cracked one time too many for the magic to firmly hold. It still works with sound, though, and he smiles as the voice of his brother comes through.

“Newt! What trouble are you in now?”

“No trouble,” he insists. “But… what would you say to being the magizoologist consultant for the Ministry?”

There’s a period of silence. “I would say I already have a job, and that I know someone vastly more qualified.”

Newt bites his lip.

“Is something wrong, Newt? Why don’t you want to come back? Did someone in the Ministry-”

“No,” he interrupts. There was the odd auror who liked to try and trip him up in the halls, but most of them just gave him a wide berth after hearing about Theseus. Still, he’d rather not accidentally send his brother on the warpath for him. “I just… it’s not that I don’t want to be in England. But I want to be in New York.”

A sharp intake of breath.

“I have… friends here. You know how hard it is for me to make friends, Thes.”

When Theseus speaks again, his voice is soft. “Yeah, I know.”

“But here I have Tina, and Queenie, and-” he cuts himself off, unsure whether he really wants to reveal the fragile embers of his relationship with Percival. Theseus has always been adept at reading him though. On occasions such as this, it’s a thorn in his side.

“And…? Someone else,” Theseus chuckles. “A special someone?”

He doesn’t answer, which he realises too late is more of a confirmation than a denial. Darned humans, with their ability to extrapolate, and particularly Theseus who seems to have made a lifetime’s hobby of filling in the spaces he leaves. 

“It’s a consultant’s role,” he steamrollers on. “With my book they won’t need more than that, they’ll be able to handle easier creatures, and with you there to pop in and keep an eye - I trust you, Thes, I know you’ll make sure they’re not mistreating them - it could work. It will work. And I’m only an international portkey away when there’s something big.”

The fact Theseus has allowed him to get that all out at once is suspicious. 

“You’ve thought this through.”

He has. He’d hardly realised it himself, but idle wonderings in the small hours have somehow coalesced into a plan.

“Tell me who the ‘and’ is, and I’ll put it to the Minister. They’ve managed without you for over a year, I suppose they can manage again.”

He tries to tamp down on his smile, but it’s unstoppable, like a niffler through a jewellery shop. He’s just glad the mirror is broken; he must look like some kind of loon, except the happiness is hot and bright in his chest and if he doesn’t let it out it might burn him up. He gets to  _ stay _ . He gets to go on walks with Tina, and help Queenie cook, and most of all, he gets Percival. He can hug him as much as he needs, and kiss him whenever he wants. And more, to be thought about further when he’s not in the middle of talking to his brother. 

“I’ll visit,” he promises. “Check up on things, meet the creatures and make sure their needs are being met. Answer questions. Like office hours, maybe a week a few times a year-”

“I haven’t agreed yet.” It’s like a flick of cold water on a bonfire, barely noticeable. “Who’s the ‘and’?”

He’s half a world away, and Percival is both an accomplished dueller and fully recovered after his encounter with Grindelwald. Theseus may be surprised, even shocked, that his old rival and his brother have - well, begun forming their own herd, for lack of a better term - but there’s nothing he can do from England.

“Percival Graves.”

A beat of silence.

“WHAT?!”

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed this! First outing in this fandom and I haven't seen the second film, so my interpretation of Theseus has been entirely cobbled together - my apologies if he's out of character, but I couldn't resist that final scene.
> 
> I wrote this mainly because I figured Newt has to be pretty observant, right? To have not yet been eaten by one of his creatures? But then I figured - what makes him bad with people, and came up with trying to translate human behaviour must be so much more complicated than animals, which always say what they mean. Anyway, this is the result of that random thought.
> 
> Apparently 'panther piss' really was slang for whiskey, particularly the homemade prohibition stuff, which seemed to fit so well with a fantastic beasts story! I almost used it for the title and then worried that the swearing might put people off. 'Ossified' was slang for drunk.


End file.
